An Exception to the Rule
by Jayda Morgana
Summary: One-shot, Johnlock. John is dismayed to learn that on the rare occasion Sherlock feels attraction, it's always for the same sort of person. In other words, Sherlock has a 'type', and not of the cuddly, army-doctor variety ...


Whenever John noticed someone flirting with Sherlock Holmes, he had to suppress a cringe.

Said flirtations were almost an everyday occurrence. Sherlock's cases exposed him to all sorts of people, and most of them were entirely unsuspecting. They didn't realize how completely uninterested - how oblivious - Sherlock was.

Point being, it was painful for John to watch others waste their seductive techniques. Girls batted their eyelashes, elderly women made the occasional innocent joke ("isn't he _dishy?_") - hell, even a good number of men were putting their hearts on the line.

One of two things always happened: Sherlock ignored the advances altogether, or he brushed them off with a once-over and a sneer. It didn't matter how many dozens of times this happened; John felt the sting of embarrassment _every single time_. Almost as though it were happening to himself.

"Sherlock, be nice," he always chided.

"What's the point?" Sherlock said irritably (or something to that effect). "If I give them ideas, they'll never leave me alone."

John never continued that sort of argument. Sherlock didn't practice social niceties, but there usually was logical reasoning behind his actions. Encouraging a prospective lover would distract him from his work.

_And we can't be having that,_ John thought, feeling bitter.

* * *

John was out buying groceries one morning when he received a text from Sherlock.

_At tailor's around corner. Join me to discuss latest case. SH_

John sighed, tucking his mobile away and continuing to peruse the aisles. He didn't enjoy being bossed about and had no qualms about making Sherlock wait.

A good twenty minutes later, John arrived at the tailor's. He didn't really see why Sherlock was getting his suits fitted again (the bastard knew his clothing was already plenty form-fitting). Similar thoughts were completely forgotten when he caught sight of the interaction before him.

Sherlock was standing off to the side, apparently waiting for his tailor to ring up the final price. That, however, was not important: the broad-shouldered man conversing with him was what caught John's eye. Bright smile, warm brown eyes, wavy hair - the man had it all. John was no deductive genius, but he could easily tell from the man's posture and eager tilt of the head that he was chatting Sherlock up.

And Sherlock, for all things, looked _interested_.

A casual observer wouldn't have noticed the change in Sherlock's demeanor, but of course John was more than that. Sherlock's grin wasn't cynical - there was something akin to pleasure in the quirk of that full mouth. His eyes were bright and full of fire.

The slight flush of his cheeks, however, was the most telling sign. John didn't think he'd ever seen Sherlock blush before, but somehow he knew the pale spots on each side of his face were just that. Anyone else would erroneously assume Sherlock had come down with some sort of illness, but John knew better. It wasn't much in the way of evidence, but in this matter, John decided intuition was foundation enough.

For once in his life, John found something about Sherlock Holmes completely - almost embarrassingly - obvious.

The doctor sat down in a chair, forcing himself not to listen in, but he couldn't help himself. He caught snippets of the man's dialogue ("genius", "article", "breakthrough") and caught absolutely none of Sherlock's quick responses. His flatmate, besides being intrigued, was talking about a mile a minute, clearly very excited.

The exchange ended with a pat on the shoulder (_A pat on the shoulder?_ John couldn't help but bristle) as the broad man made his way out of the shop. Sherlock turned away and caught sight of John, abruptly stiffening.

"Who was that?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. He knew his conversation sounded forced.

"David Porter," Sherlock said, eyeing John suspiciously.

"Friend of yours?"

Sherlock scowled. "I just met him ten minutes ago."

"Oh. I see."

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Sherlock demanded.

John shrugged. "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

* * *

That was only one exchange of many. Sherlock remained aloof around most everyone who was intrigued by him, but over the course of the next several months, John was beginning to notice a pattern. Sherlock never seemed to show genuine interest, but when he did, it was in a subtle sort of manner. And, to John's great surprise, it was always towards tall, well-built, classically good-looking men.

John was absolutely staggered. The outward signs of attraction were minimal, but they were always there. Sherlock never took these flirtations beyond just that, though - his admirers offered numbers and asked him out on dates, but he always declined. It struck John as peculiar and, above all, nonsensical.

"Sherlock," he said one day, while his friend was bent over his microscope. John found himself staring at the detective's purple shirt, admiring the way it hugged his lithe waist. He subsequently wondered why he was having such thoughts, period.

"Hm?" Sherlock asked, keeping his eyes on the slides.

"Why don't you just accept one of their offers?"

Sherlock finally looked up. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't be daft - I see the way you look at those men. You're interested, though I'm sure nobody'd ever guess it. What about that one today - Daniel, or something? Or the others before him? All those big, rugby-player types?"

"I don't see why it's any concern of yours," Sherlock said, cutting right to the point.

John fought to seem easygoing. "Well, don't you see, Sherlock?" he said, with an attempt at a casual laugh (and what ended up being more of a strangled bark), "You have a type."

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "A 'type'? I-"

"You know, you've got the things you're attracted to." John chuckled awkwardly, torn between his frustration and the hypnotizing arch of Sherlock's backside (perhaps the two things went hand in hand? He wasn't sure.). "It's okay, Sherlock. It's actually relieving, in a way, knowing that you've got your turn-ons, just like everyone else."

"Pray tell me what these 'turn-ons' are," Sherlock drawled, looking less irritated and more than a little smug.

"You always get this oddly contented expression when you're with those big blokes," John said, knowing he sounded stroppy and obsessive. "The sort of blokes most women flock over. I mean, it's great, Sherlock - great to know you're interested - but isn't it a bit cliche, especially for you? I mean ... falling for _that_ type?"

"Don't be an idiot. Perhaps my body - my transport - is reacting in that manner because I am, in fact, attracted to them. It's a purely biological drive and it hasn't inhibited my mind in any way." Sherlock fixed John with a steely gaze. "I really don't see why you're so distressed. As much as it pains me to quote Sergeant Donovan, I think you need to find yourself a hobby."

He turned away, leaving John angry, mortified and just a bit ...

... aroused?

* * *

It took ages, but eventually John was able to come to terms with his feelings.

He was in love with Sherlock Holmes. There it was: the reason for his preoccupation, his questioning, why he couldn't turn his eyes away whenever Sherlock entered a room ...

Oh, God, but it wasn't just some schoolgirl crush! John knew he'd be able to put up with all Sherlock's petulance, unpredictability, outbursts, and so on, if only they could remain as they were ... together. John was okay with their situation staying the same, but he absolutely, positively did not want Sherlock frolicking off with other men, even if it was just in idle conversation.

John's realization was dampened by insecurity. It wasn't that he thought he was inferior or unworthy - he knew for a fact he was none of those things. What worried him most was that he wasn't Sherlock's type.

_I'm such an idiot,_ John thought, scowling. _Here I am, behaving like a lovesick puppy, crying a river because I'm not Sherlock's ideal. It's complete bollocks. Even if I _was_ all those things Sherlock's 'transport' found attractive, he'd never actually consider a relationship with me._

On the very day that John admitted his infatuation to himself, he gave it up entirely as a lost cause.

* * *

Time passed. John went on dates with women. Sherlock continued with his cases. Life at 221B remained as normal as it could ever hope to be.

One night, though, just after an evening with his latest girlfriend, John decided to break it off. His date was upset, of course, but John remained as diplomatic as possible. He would allow himself some bitterness later, but not until he and his ex had parted ways.

Halfway up the stairs to his flat, John began to feel the sparks of irritation. He found himself thinking profane thoughts, all directed at Sherlock. Sherlock, who hadn't actually done anything wrong.

_This is _your_ fault,_ John thought, imagining himself giving that curly head of hair a sharp tug. A tug, followed by a gentle pat. An apology, a soft kiss on the mouth.

Wait, _what?_

John hated these contradictory thoughts. He felt the sharp sting of tears in his eyes just as he crossed the threshold. He caught sight of Sherlock, somewhat predictably curled up on the sofa.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked without looking up. "Called it off with Hannah, did you?"

"Heather," John murmured, glad that at the very least, he was keeping his cool. "And, well ... yeah. How've you been?"

"Heather was the short blonde one, am I right?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John's question.

"Er, yeah, I-"

"You always go for the short blonde ones," Sherlock said with a sigh.

"Sherlock, what-?" John was puzzled. Sherlock didn't look like his smug self; he wasn't draped over the sofa with his typical hauteur. His hands flopped at his sides, his breathing was shallow, and he was staring off into space.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked, stepping closer.

The detective sprang up, a limp figure to a man of action in less than a second. He held John's gaze, mouth parted in a somber sort of acceptance ... as though he were about to meet his fate. John found his heart hammering in his chest, wondering what in God's name was going on.

He didn't understand the current situation, but he sure as hell knew what he wanted to do.

_Oh, fuck it,_ he thought, standing up on his toes-

Just as Sherlock pressed his mouth to John's own.

Neither knew what was happening, but they both realized very quickly how much they liked it. Sherlock's mouth was warm and inviting, his waist the perfect handhold; John felt as though he were being held afloat. Sherlock himself found pleasure in John's small frame, his arms (an appealing combination of soft and strong), and the curve of his upper lip. All of these things melded together; a fiery, desperate kiss was the result.

"Shit," John said nervously, once they'd pulled apart. Sherlock was staring at him in a similar state of surprise.

"I thought-" Sherlock began. "I never knew-"

"You-why ... me?" John gasped.

Once they caught their breaths, they tried again.

"You like women," Sherlock insisted. "Short, blonde - and they're always voluptuous." He frowned. "Why me? I'm the exact opposite. I'm ..." he chuckled to himself. "I'm certainly not your type."

John laughed, nervous and exhilarated. "Well, you're married to your work, and that transport of yours likes, well ... likes them big." He felt himself turn a blatant shade of scarlet. "I'm rather the opposite of that, too."

Sherlock pondered. "You know what?" he said, smirking cynically. "Categorizing is dull and stupid. There's always an exception to the rule."

John laughed. That statement was so very Sherlock, and yet, somehow, it wasn't. "And we're not dull or stupid," he said. "Let's face it, Sherlock; something this insane was bound to happen to us. Something impossible. God, I don't even know what I'm saying."

"This was 'bound to happen to us'?" Sherlock laughed. "That's a bit of a stretch, John ... but I can't say I'm complaining."

He wound his hand around John's strong waist, and suddenly they were kissing again. None of it made any sense, but they'd both certainly been on to something: the preconceived notions about who liked what had been hampering them - hampering their chances of a relationship - for far too long. The fact that they'd both painted themselves in a corner, allowed such notions to hold them back, was the very definition of absurd.

Neither John nor Sherlock allowed themselves to overanalyze such things; not now, nor ever again. They'd done enough waiting, and there was plenty of lost time that needed making up for.


End file.
